


Between Heaven and Hell

by Mirach



Series: My Good Omens stories [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Podfic Available, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), post-trial, trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-11 13:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: An angel and a demon took each other's place at a trial meant to obliterate their very existence. They emerged from it victorious, but not unchanged. Together, they are trying to deal with their experiences in Heaven and Hell and find a place in the world where they don't belong to any side but their own.





	1. Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I read the Good Omens a few years ago, so I don't remember the book that well, but I just watched the TV series and from there dived straight into fanfics :) I am not a native speaker and didn't have a beta reader when I started posting it, but thankfully LoveIsEternal volunteered, so it's now updated with a betaed version.  
> P.S. There is now an [awesome podfic by Tenoko1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822885)!

Hell smelled like old socks and cabbage boiled in sulphur. It tasted like the contents of an abscess spilt into ash. 

"They will hurt you, angel," Crowley had warned him yesterday. He had been sitting sprawled on the sofa in his stylish flat, looking exhausted and more worried than he would admit. "Pain is their native language. Are you sure you can do this?"

Yes. Yes, he was sure. He could do anything if there was a choice between doing it or losing Crowley. But the demon was right. It hurt. The crowbar they used to knock him out in the park was just the beginning. Hastur seemed particularly eager to use every chance to have a chat in his native language. He merely used the crowbar as interpunction.

"With Hastur, it's personal," Crowley had told him in a low voice when they had been still together, still safe. "You can't show any weakness or hesitation. Act nonchalant, like meeting someone you know very well and pretend to like. Give him a smile when he punches you. Ask if he is having a nice day when... when he..." his voice had trailed off. "Aziraphale, I can't send you there. I can't do this to you..."

"Would you like to take a bath in holy water instead, dear? I know I am a bit out of shape, but I believe I can endure some pain."

"Who told you you are out of shape?" Crowley had snarled. 

Aziraphale had looked down at his hands. "Ah, that doesn't matter really... you were speaking about Hastur. What should I tell him to convince him that I am you?"

"I haven't checked my answering machine lately. Would you maybe know if I have any new messages?" he asked nonchalantly as the Duke of Hell twisted his hand behind his back painfully. Something cracked. He bit back a whimper, kept his face stoic, bored. 

_You can't show any weakness..._

_Oh, Crowley, this is how they have been treating you every time our plans didn't go too well for your side? You never told me, never mentioned anything…_

They didn't even get into the courtroom yet. 

"You know guys, as much fun as this is, I don't think the court will like the waiting," he said, licking a swollen, bleeding lip with Crowley's forked tongue. 

"Oh, but the court's not assembled yet," someone said from behind his back, a voice like the buzzing of flies. Beelzebub. "You are early. Plenty of time for fun..." The Lord of Hell snapped their fingers, and a tray with _tools_ was passed among the crowd.

Aziraphale never thought of himself as tough. He was the first to admit that he was far from the picture of a battle-ready angel. For himself, he would never endure the following torments. He would break down in tears, begging for the pain to stop. Hell really _did_ know how to inflict it most efficiently. But he was not doing this for himself. Every punch he received was one he took for Crowley. Every hit he took, was one that Crowley _didn't_. That gave him the resolve he didn't know he possessed, but that was there all the time, he realized now. It was hard and pure like a diamond, deep in the core of his being where no pain could reach. 

"Whatever they do, we can't show them that they can hurt us, or they will try again," Crowley's sorrowful voice came through the red haze, from a memory of a different time and place. Yesterday. So long ago... It had been clear that the demon would be a thousand times more willing to take that part upon himself than send Aziraphale into it... if there wouldn't be the near certainty of the trial ending with holy water. No matter the physical anguish, the pain of losing him forever had been something he didn't want the angel to go through. He had only tasted it for a few hours himself and it had been unbearably worse than anything Hell could do to him. 

"Really guys, this is getting boring. If you are having fun, you are welcome to go on, but it's a bit embarrassing to watch, you know..." Aziraphale's steely resolve said through Crowley's bloody lips curled in a contemptuous smile. He didn't get a chance to heal himself yet, with the continuous stream of hits that didn't let him focus. Now, he could have done it. They stopped for just enough time. But he didn't. He held himself upright with the sheer strength of will when they let go of him: upright and in a nonchalant posture that he knew so well from watching Crowley for thousands of years, showing them that he didn’t care about the pain. He actually enjoyed that defiance, something he never dared show towards his superiors before. 

They believed him. Something in his voice and look made them believe without a doubt not only that he was Crowley, but also that they were just embarrassing themselves with their attempts to hurt him. And no demon likes to be embarrassed in front of other demons, especially inferior ones. 

There was a nervous shuffling of feet, then Beelzebub's voice from somewhere down the hall: "The trial of the demon Crowley, beginning with evidence and ending with utter obliviation, is in session. All rise. Bring in the traitor!"

Without even a wince, he healed the bleeding flesh and broken bones although it took much of his will and energy and he felt dizzy afterwards. He did not let himself stagger. Instead, he repaired his clothes and took a new pair of sunglasses from his pocket. When he entered the courtroom, nothing suggested what he had just been through. He emanated Crowley's confidence and he truly felt it this time, because what he told them was absolutely true: there was no way they could hurt him. They didn't have Crowley.

Aziraphale did not expect a fair trial or a chance to defend himself. This was Hell, after all. He _enjoyed_ the part with holy water and Michael's shocked expression when he made her miracle him a towel. He felt strong, like steel tempered by fire. He made sure to make them afraid of Crowley, to make them respect him so that Hell won't bother them again anytime soon.


	2. Heaven

Heaven smelled like hospital disinfectant that someone tried to cover up with a "sea breeze" air freshener. It tasted like licking a freshly lit neon lightbulb.

"I don’t think it will be that bad," Aziraphale had said yesterday, looking a bit embarrassed as he sipped his tea, sitting on the edge of Crowley's huge bed as if trying to take as little space as possible.

But it _was_ that bad. Not physically, no. It was bad precisely because of the way Aziraphale had been sitting, the way he had been talking about Heaven. It had reminded Crowley of someone who was preparing his partner for the first and long put-off meeting with his parents, afraid that all the dirty little family secrets would be revealed and that would somehow lower him in the eyes of the other, as if it has been his fault that his father likes to have one drink too many and then beat his wife and kids.

"No, it really shouldn't be that bad... Well, it may seem to you that they are treating me a tad coldly, but they don’t mean it. They are angels, of course they are kind and mean well, that's what being an angel means. They just... do not show it that well. Please don't be angry with them..."

Remembering Aziraphale's quiet voice saying those words now, Crowley felt the desire to wipe that smug smile from Gabriel's face with his fist. But he had to keep his pretence, had to school his features into Aziraphale's innocent and shy expression when everything inside him was boiling with rage. For pulling that off, he would deserve an Oscar.

_You blessed fuckers don't deserve Aziraphale_ , he thought under the contemptuous look of Gabriel's violet eyes. That was the first time someone actually looked at him since his capture in the park. Hell has always been personal in its punishments. They might want to claw the flesh from your bones, but they at least knew your name and cared about how it made you feel: the worse, the better. The impersonality of Heaven made Crowley scream inside. That's how they have been treating Aziraphale for the whole time?! Like he was a mere nuisance distracting them from more important work, a number on a report - nobody caring how he felt or even acknowledging that he _could_ feel...

He tried reasoning with them, for Aziraphale's sake. That was what the angel would do, not understanding how anyone could wish for violence if there was even a slim chance to prevent it.

"Well, I think the greater good..."

"Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I am the archangel fucking Gabriel."

Not even a chance to explain himself. He knew how Gabriel would react before the fucking archangel opened his mouth, but still, the answer stung. It stung _him_ , a demon. He was glad Aziraphale was not here to hear it, but something was telling him that the angel had heard a good deal of such answers over the millenia. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he thought about all the time that he has known the wonderful celestial being and all the little signs he overlooked.

He thought it had been mistrust, maybe even some hidden disgust about his demon nature that made Aziraphale so oblivious to any attempts of friendship for so long. It took him centuries to believe that a certain demon could care about him. Now Crowley understood. It was not because he was suspicious of the demon, no. It was because he did not believe anyone could honestly care about how he feels. And it was all because of _this_.

He promised himself that, if he by some miracle managed to get through this without dropping the mask by strangling Gabriel, he would not stop reassuring his best friend that he is the most wonderful and deserving person that ever came from Heaven (not that it would be too hard, with all the douchebags up here).

Hellfire.

They seriously made a deal with a demon so they could execute one of their own by Hellfire. Not just kill him, but obliterate his very soul, his purest essence. And they called themselves angels. Bastards.

The flames in front of him reminded him of burning books. He felt something breaking in him. It didn't matter any longer that he was not Aziraphale and Hellfire couldn't harm him. They didn't know that. They were doing this to Aziraphale.

"I don't suppose I can persuade you to reconsider? We're meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake."

There was no pretence anymore. The shiver in his voice was genuine. He had to try. Yesterday, even with the prophecy in his hands, Aziraphale had found it so hard to believe they would actually do this to him. Even after everything, he saw them as family. When he learns how they saw and treated him in turn, it would hurt him, and Crowley would do anything to spare his best friend that hurt. Even if it meant trying to stop and redeem angels from what he saw as sin. It didn't work.

"Well, for Heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors. So, into the flame."

There was a cold, sinking feeling at the bottom of his stomach. So impersonal, even in a death order. _He's going to die because of you!_ , he wanted to scream at the ostentatiously disinterested angels. _He's going to die, and you won't even acknowledge him! You are worse than Hell!_

"Right. Well... lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion," he said instead, almost choking on the words. Aziraphale would say that. He would be sad for them. He would forgive them... and then walk to his death.

"Shut your stupid mouth and die already."

Gabriel did not know how close he was to being strangled and thrown into Hellfire himself by a furious demon at that moment. Only worry for Aziraphale stopped Crowley. He wondered how things were going in Hell right now and what would happen to the angel if he revealed himself now.

He stepped into the fire and made _sure_ that Heaven would fear Aziraphale from now on. Those fuckers will think back at how they have been treating him and regret every moment of it.

He came through the trial victorious, but still he felt sick on his stomach as he was leaving Heaven behind.


	3. Above Hell

Earth smelled like old books and leather car seats, like freshly cut grass and a wooden bench warmed by the sun, like Crépes Suzette with Deutz Blanc de Blanc Champagne at the Ritz. It tasted like the release of great tension, like freedom: sweet and a little bitter.

Crowley watched Aziraphale's face, marveling in the feeling that they were together and on their own side. He admired the strange spark in the angel's eyes - he would say pride, if pride wasn’t a sin. Aziraphale was in a good mood, excited and talkative. Crowley preferred staying quiet and listening to the angel, his appearance behind the barricade of sunglasses as cool as ever.

They drank to the world that didn't end and laughed about the rubber duck and towel. They enjoyed their lunch at the Ritz and a walk and a little cozy cafe and a stylish wine bar, miraculously free of tourists. It got dark outside and as the alcohol level in their blood was rising, so were the unsaid things at the back of their throats. 

Now Aziraphale looked tired, his agitated movements slowing as if something heavy was gradually setting in. Crowley felt the same somewhere deep inside. 

"Let's go home," he suggested. "The bookshop, I mean," he specified when the angel gave him an uncertain look.

Aziraphale nodded and sobered up just enough to be able to walk without tripping. It wasn't far, as if they had been gravitating towards this place since they left the Ritz. The angel welcomed the familiar sight of the wooden door with a "closed" sign. A slow smile spread on his lips when he assured with his own eyes (not just Crowley’s eyes that looked like his) that all was as it used to be, familiar and homey - especially with Crowley at his side... _Crowley?_

He glanced at the demon who was unusually still, staring at the wooden doors, transfixed.

"Crowley?"

The demon did not reply, the street light mirroring in his sunglasses like flames. 

"Crowley!"

The demon winced. "Uh... sorry... Got a bit lost in my thoughts..."

"Would you like to come inside?... Please?"

"Of course, angel."

The demon was still feeling a bit shaken as he walked inside. It was hard to get rid of the images of a burning bookshop and the flames of Hellfire meant for his best friend. His _only_ friend.

"Sit down, dear." A hint of concern was in Aziraphale's voice. The voice sounded faint, though.

He looked at the angel, at his pale face and shoulders slumped with exhaustion. 

"No, you sit down. Please? I’ll make the tea."

Aziraphale obeyed. Making tea gave Crowley something he could busy himself with for a while, finding his composure again - he hoped. And tea was nice. Aziraphale liked it, and Crowley appreciated it as well, exactly because of that. Tea could make the angel feel calm and warm inside. When wine didn't help, it was time for tea.

When he got back with two steaming cups, he found the angel slumped on the sofa. Whatever empowered feeling was fueling him during the day, it was wearing off, leaving him weak and exhausted. Something in Crowley was selfishly pleased about that - he could take care of the angel. 

He put down the cups and knelt at the sofa. "Aziraphale?"

The angel winced, just like Crowley in front of the shop before. "Sorry... must have dozed off... I'm being a bad host... Would you like some tea?"

Behind the shield of sunglasses, Crowley’s look was worried. It was not normal for Aziraphale to just doze off like that. He must have been really worn out.

"I just made some,” he said softly. “That's why I left, remember? Just sit and don't apologize. He paused.

"Was it..."

There was some unspoken agreement until now. For the whole time since they swapped back, they talked about the world, about Antichrist Adam, Anathema and Almost Apocalypse. They eventually got to Burning Bentleys and Bookshops and other things starting with B, too... but never got to H. What they experienced in Heaven and Hell remained untold, unless it was something they could laugh about. There wasn't much of that. He sighed and finally opened that forbidden door.

"Was it bad?"

"No. _Yes.._." 

"Tell me..." Crowley encouraged, ever the tempter. 

Aziraphale hesitated. 

Crowley pressed the cup with tea into his hand.

The angel took a sip and sighed. Earl Grey with cream. The Serpent knew what worked on him.

"There's not much to tell, really," he murmured tiredly. "You had been quite correct in your predictions."

"I hoped I might have exaggerated things a bit... so you were prepared for everything..." Crowley sighed and slowly put down his glasses. His eyes were sorrowful, apologetic. "I didn't, did I?"

"It's alright, dear... I am not hurt, just a bit tired from healing myself."

Crowley grimaced, knowing it took some serious healing to exhaust an angelic power. Healing came naturally to them. 

"That bad?" he asked in a thin voice.

"Well... yes. And no."

Crowley raised a questioning eyebrow. Without the sunglasses, his eyes could be very expressive. 

And Aziraphale, apparently, wanted to calm him and alleviate his worry. "It hurt like hell, that's to be expected given the setting, right?" he smiled faintly. "But I actually... enjoyed it a little."

Crowley's expression went from concern to surprise and shock in a heartbeat. One could even recognize a hint of embarrassment in the slightly redder shade at the top of his ears, under the assumption that a demon can be embarrassed. His imagination was just taking him to some very unexpected places.

He coughed. "You what?... Angel, you mean to say that I have known you for all these years without finding out something like that? That's... uh..." 

"I didn't know it either, alright?" Aziraphale replied, a bit confused by the demon's reaction, his expression perfectly innocent. "I never felt like that before. But the pain... and thought of you..."

"Ngh. Yes?" The demon's thoughts have reached a melting point, it seemed. 

"Yes. I think it may be a thing about angels. Or just me. I don't know... are you alright?"

"Gnk... Y-Yes?"

"It must be the righteous suffering, like the martyrs. Something strong in the middle of pain, knowing you are doing it for someone else..."

"Oh." Crowley's eyes studied the patterns in the carpet, finding them suddenly very interesting. He took a sip from the tea and cleared his throat. "I see... right... _martyrdom_... Never thought of anything else…"

"And a little bit of defiance, as well," Aziraphale added. 

"And a little bit of defiance… Wait, so you were imagining Gabriel in Beelzebub's place?"

"Uh... maybe?"

Crowley chuckled around some lump in his throat. "You are wonderful, Aziraphale, you know that? Absolutely amazing."

Now Aziraphale blushed a little, not knowing what to say.

Crowley saved him by not waiting for an answer. "You need to get some rest. It's not just the healing. Enduring the pain takes a lot of strength as well. No wonder you are tired... I know you don't normally sleep, but this time it would really do you some good. Would you allow me to help?"

"Oh, no need to bother, really..." 

"Please. You did it for me. _I_ would feel much better if I could do at least a little for you."

"Well, if you put it like that... but what about you? Are you alright? They weren't too bad to you, were they?"

"No, I'm fine," Crowley lied smoothly. "Come, let's get you to bed, angel."

Aziraphale finished the tea and then let Crowley fuss over him to his heart's content. He found it quite pleasant, actually. He allowed himself to indulge in that feeling, knowing he deserved it. For this, he would go through hell again.

Crowley helped him up the stairs and to bed. (Aziraphale didn't own a bed, as sleep was not his habit, but Crowley imagined him one that was just the kind his angel would have liked, and suddenly there it was). He then miracled him soft pale blue pyjamas, and covered him with a blanket. Then he sat down into a chair and gently led the angel into sleep with a little temptation towards sloth.

Aziraphale sighed contentedly. In these circumstances, he welcomed the rest. He slipped into it softly, soothed by Crowley's presence and the knowledge that the world was safe for now and so were the two of them.


	4. Beneath Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LoveIsEternal for volunteering as a beta for this story! The previous chapters have now been updated with a corrected version too.

The room smelled of smoke and tasted of fear. Aziraphale awoke with a start. His sleepy mind registered the dark space and immediately started scanning it for danger. Bed (where did that come from?), a shelf, writing table… demon. No danger, though. It was _his_ demon, curled in a chair where he fell asleep. Or not?

"No! No! Please…"

It was Crowley’s voice, tense and panicked.

"Crowley! What's wrong, dear?" Aziraphale was up and at his side in a heartbeat.

"It burns..." the demon sobbed.

Only then did Aziraphale realize that Crowley was asleep. He was having a nightmare.

"Crowley!" he implored, as he shook the demon's shoulder. "Crowley! It's just a dream... "

The demon lashed out with his claws and only then opened his eyes. He blinked, taking in the surroundings. He was still trembling.

"You were having a nightmare, dear..." Aziraphale said gently. He was sitting on the floor where he fell, clutching his hand. 

When Crowley registered what had happened, he sank down next to him. "Shit. I hurt you. I'm so sorry. Let me see..."

Without protest, Aziraphale extended his hand. "I'm still a bit tired. Could you...?" he lied, knowing it would help the demon to calm if he could amend the hurt he caused.

"Of course." Crowley took it gently, regretfully. Aziraphale noticed that his hands were still shaking. The four parallel bloody lines disappeared without a trace. 

"Brandy?" the angel suggested. That was _his_ heavy caliber in comforting Crowley. 

"Yeah. Thanks."

Aziraphale turned on a nightlight and left for just as long as it took to grab the bottle and two glasses. He found Crowley in the same position, sitting on the floor. He put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down on the bed with me? The chair doesn't look too comfortable to sleep on and I don't feel like sleeping anymore. I may read for a bit, if you take a nap."

"I won’t sleep," Crowley said through gritted teeth, but slowly got up and joined the angel on the bed, pouring a glass of brandy into his throat before he was even settled.

"What did you dream about? The Apocalypse?"

The demon shook his head mutely and extended the empty glass towards him. When it was refilled, he brought it straight to his lips.

"Fire, if you need to know..." he murmured after he finished it and smirked self-deprecatingly. "A demon afraid of fire. Nice one, eh?"

But Aziraphale didn't laugh. "Hellfire?" he asked quietly.

The demon's hand clenched around the glass, shattering it.

Aziraphale yelped. But then he took the bleeding hand into his, gently removing the shards of glass and healing it with ease. If Crowley noticed the discrepancy with his earlier words, he didn't call him out on it. He just stared at his hand long after it was healed. 

"Was it... that bad?" Aziraphale asked, his voice gentle. 

Crowley gave a dry chuckle. "No. And yes."

"Tell me, please."

"No."

Aziraphale froze. Then he poured a glass of brandy for himself and downed it. Poured another and handed the whole bottle to Crowley.

"Were they too mean to you?" he inquired, sounding ashamed - as if it has been his fault.

That was the last straw for Crowley. He threw the bottle against the wall in anger. Crash. It shattered into hundreds of shards. "No, angel. They were mean to _you_. Have been for all time."

Aziraphale winced. Twice. With the crash and with the words.

Crowley stared at the amber stain on the wall and shards in a pool of brandy below it. He snapped his fingers. The bottle returned to his hand in its original state, the liquid sloshing within. He took a gulp from it. 

"They... those fuckers... just ordered you to step into the fire... without a trial... without a chance to defend yourself..." he said through gritted teeth and sent the bottle against the wall again.

Another snap of fingers, another gulp.

"Archangel fucking Gabriel... insulting you even during your last words..."

Crash. Snap. Gulp.

"And they call themselves the good guys..."

Crash. Snap. Gulp.

"Total lack of caring after six thousand _bloody_ years of service!"

Crash. Snap.

Silently, Aziraphale extended his empty glass towards him. 

Crowley stared at it for a moment, his mind still stuck in the cycle of anger. Then he realized what was being asked of him, and refilled the glass.

"Don't you dare try to defend them," he growled, fury still dripping from his words. 

Aziraphale took the glass and turned it in his hand, avoiding Crowley's look. He was quiet for a long time. "Not going to," he said finally. It sounded gentle, like turning the last page of an old book.

The hand holding the bottle sank slowly, the likelihood of further shattering lowering inch by inch. 

"Not going to offer any excuse for how they treated you?" the demon asked hoarsely.

Aziraphale shook his head with deep weariness in his movements. "No. I don't think so." 

Crowley laughed - a strained, borderline mad sound. "But _I_ am sorry. I always thought you had it better, being a part of the Host, heavenly grace and so on. Damn, I have been a fool. I should have noticed..."

Aziraphale was still turning the glass, as if afraid to look into the demon's eyes - afraid to find something that would break him in them.

"Aziraphale."

A hand was laid over his, slender long-nailed fingers over the chubbier well-manicured ones.

The angel sighed and finally looked up. The fury had dissipated from Crowley. There was only sorrow now. 

The demon sighed. "I'm also sorry for telling you. I was glad it was me, and not you. I wanted to spare you this."

Aziraphale smiled faintly. "That's called martyrdom, dear."

"What?!" Crowley made an indignant sound. "No. No way. It's totally different. Besides, I failed. Blabbered it out after the first stupid dream."

Aziraphale put the glass aside, the liquid inside still untouched. "No. It's alright. You did not fail. I needed to know. Now I see more clearly where I don't belong... and where I _do_."

Crowley did not dare to breathe. Usually, they could speak in allegories or even silences, the other one knowing perfectly well what meaning was hidden behind the words and between them. But here, he did not dare to guess. He longed to _hear it_ with his own ears.

"And where is that?" he whispered.

"With you," the angel smiled. Slowly, tentatively, he wrapped his hands around the demon and embraced him, his grip getting firmer with every passing moment.

Crowley trembled with relief. He returned the embrace and held on tightly. He had been afraid that Aziraphale would break under the knowledge of how Heaven treated him. But in his arms was an angel who went through Hell for him and emerged from it stronger. Heaven could not break him anymore.

"I thought you would be the one needing a hug..." he said shakily. "And here I am..."

"Here with me. It's alright, dear. I don't belong to Heaven anymore and you don't belong to Hell. I can be a little defiant… and you don't need to be strong all the time."

Crowley closed his eyes, gradually relaxing against Aziraphale's shoulder, breathing in his calming scent.

"I was back in Heaven, in the dream," he whispered after a while. "But I was you. Not just wearing your face. I was you and the Hellfire burned me, seared away my flesh and soul. And when I looked up, it was the bookshop burning around me and I was myself again, but still I burned. And you were gone, burned as well... everything burned..." his voice broke into a sob.

The angel tightened his grip, spreading his wings around them like a soft, comforting cloud. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry for leaving you like that. I didn’t mean to..."

"I know." 

Crowley stroked the silky feathers and then brought his own wings into existence, entwining black feathers with white ones.

"Tea?" he asked when dawn started to creep through the windows.

"Tea with brandy."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Between Heaven and Hell [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822885) by [Tenoko1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1)




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